Maelstrom. Don Pendleton

was heavy and his voice a rich baritone.

      “I think we’re dealing with terrorists, mate,” McCarter replied.

      “I agree,” Encizo added. “Those guys were definitely more than mercenaries. If they look like terrorists act like terrorists and move like terrorists, they’re probably terrorists.”

      Halsford pulled the pipe from his mouth and eyed the Cuban warrior with a mix of interest and suspicion. “Kornsby tells me you’re a private security detail hired by Stormalite Systems.”

      “That’s right,” Encizo said in a congenial tone.

      “For a security group, you seem quite well informed. And from what I saw of your movements on those tapes, I’d guess this isn’t the first time you’ve been in these kinds of circumstances. Am I correct?”

      Encizo smiled but kept the tone in his voice cool. “It’s probably best you don’t ask any more questions like that. Nothing personal.”

      Halsford studied Encizo a moment and then shook it off with a shrug and a grin, stuffing the pipe back in his mouth. “It’s nothing to me. We’ve got the go-ahead to cooperate with you mates in whatever way we can, and as I understand it, that came straight from the prime ministers office.”

      “Tell me something, Mr. Halford. What do you know about those four-wheelers recovered by your people?”

      “Our technical people are still examining them. We believe they were purchased from several local dealerships throughout the city, as well as some surrounding areas. The blooming things aren’t exactly uncommon here. The locals have been swearing to hundreds of sales daily.”

      “So they won’t be so easy to trace,” Encizo finished for him.

      Halsford frowned. “I’m afraid that’s true.”

      “What about these tapes?” McCarter asked. “How many people have seen these?”

      “Aside from yourselves, only I have—and my immediate superiors.”

      Encizo stepped forward, slid an arm around Halsford’s shoulders and patted the guy’s arm with camaraderie. “I don’t suppose you could keep it that way for a bit longer. Could you?”

      Halsford shrugged. “I don’t believe it would hurt anything, as long as I can get some cooperation from you in return. How would you make it worth my while?”

      “Well, let’s talk about that,” McCarter said. “Your federal boys don’t know anything about these tapes yet, right?”

      Halsford nodded.

      “That means they don’t necessarily have to know about it. And if our people can get a look at those tapes, then maybe, just maybe, we could make sure whatever information we get we share with you.”

      Encizo smiled and whistled. “That would look awfully good on you and Kornsby, huh? You’d be the first to crack the case. I’m already picturing it—press releases, newspaper headlines, CNN interviews.”

      “Not to mention the commendations and promotions,” McCarter said, adding some additional fuel to Encizo’s already roaring fire.

      “Did you say promotions, mate?”

      “You bet,” Encizo said. “We’re talking at least captain, maybe even major.”

      There was a long silence and the two Phoenix Force warriors could tell from Halsford’s expression that the wheels were turning. Of course, they didn’t have any real control over that stuff, but a word from the Oval Office could make a little go a long way. And they certainly wouldn’t leave Kornsby’s people hanging on this. They would find some way to make good on it without actually promising anything. Stony Man’s connections ran wide and deep, and touched members of the highest governmental circles in nearly every foreign government.

      “Very good, then,” Halsford finally said. “As the Americans like to say, ‘We have a deal.’”

      And the trio shook on it.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Brooklyn Heights, New York

      Carl “Ironman” Lyons was angry, and with good reason.

      Yeah, it bothered him when innocent people died, but when they died because of their skin color, that really riled him. In fact, it put him in a damn foul mood, and when he got feeling like this, not even his long-time friends and brothers-in-arms liked being around him. Still, neither Hermann Schwarz nor Rosario Blancanales would have thought even a moment of abandoning Lyons—not in a million years.

      So Lyons decided to hold his temper in check until they could get the gist from New York City’s finest. In fact, he was all smiles as he questioned the lead detective while Schwarz and Blancanales maneuvered their way through the broken glass and twisted metal of storefronts, stooping to look into the faces of the Arabic victims who owned the variety of shops and eateries along Atlantic Avenue.

      “So explain this to me again,” Lyons said.

      “It’s just like I said, sir,” the detective replied. “Everything you’re seeing here is corroborated by the stories we’ve gotten so far from witnesses. We’re still canvassing, but I don’t think anyone we talk to from here out will have much to add. It just happened too damned fast.”

      The detective was a guy from the neighborhood, a third-generation Lebanese assigned to one of the local boroughs. He’d introduced himself as Elmore Nuri. Lyons didn’t know if that was his given name, but it didn’t much matter. The guy seemed pretty knowledgeable about the area, and he was acting as though the devastation now before them was nothing new. Nothing behind Nuri’s dark eyes betrayed he was the least bit surprised by the carnage. It was a whole new world.

      Lyons looked around him again. The scene was gruesome.

      At approximately 1545 local time, a school bus stopped in front of a group of shops on Atlantic Avenue where it borders Cobble Hill. Witnesses claim at least fifteen men and women, dressed in combat fatigues and armbands emblazoned with the Star of David, and toting assault rifles, jumped off the bus and lined up in front of the shops. Moments later, they simultaneously opened fire on the commercial area that was chock-full of citizens from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, although predominately Middle Easterners and Asians. The butchery continued for nearly a full minute as the terrorists periodically reloaded their weapons and each delivered at least two full magazines worth of wanton violence and destruction.

      It had all occurred less than two hours earlier, and apparently it hadn’t ended there. A pair of transit cops who had just emerged from a subway station apparently tried to evacuate nearby citizens in an orderly fashion when the terrorists spotted them. Several members of the terror group turned their weapons on the officers—the transit cops never stood a chance. Several witnesses also said that they watched helplessly from alleyways or behind cars as the heavily armed assailants then entered several of the shops and polished off any possible survivors of the barbaric attack. Less than two minutes had elapsed when the terrorists got back on the bus and it fled the scene well before the first squads arrived.

      As soon as the first of it went out over the airwaves, computers at Stony Man Farm alerted Kurtzman and his team. Able Team had been on its way back from a mission via chopper when Price called and ordered them to detour to JFK. The details had been sketchy at that point, and even now they didn’t know much more than they had when they arrived. Nonetheless, Price had told them they had authorization from the highest levels and to use their standing credentials as a special task force of U.S. Deputy Marshals with the Department of Homeland Security.

      “What can you tell me about this area?” Lyons asked, turning his attention back to Nuri.

      The detective shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

      “Let’s start with the neighborhood. Is it mostly Arabic?”

      Nuri half coughed, half